


“O Serpent heart… Fiend Angelical, Dove Feather Raven”   -William Shakespeare (R&J, 3.2.74-76)

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, The Six Antonios, Twelfth Night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 00:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12996207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: 'There are no sonnets immortalizing a demon with eyes like the sun. This is probably just as well.'





	1. Chapter 1

There are no sonnets immortalizing a demon with eyes like the sun. This is probably just as well.

When Shakespeare first met Antonio the thing that initially recommended him to him was that he was old. The second was that he was rich.

Crowley didn’t see himself as either of those things. The wear of a few centuries without changing bodies had aged his current form to something vaguely in its forties, and while he lived comfortably and preferred expensive food and drink, he wouldn’t say it was opulent or extravagant.

But Shakespeare was in his twenties, living on an actor’s salary and trying to cast a play. 

It wasn’t the most amazing piece of writing Crowley had ever read, but it had potential. And a bit with a dog.

If this young man wanted him to act in and help finance his play, who was he to refuse? He had shown up to the audition, after all.

‘You there! What’s you name?’ Shakespeare had asked.

‘Antonio.’

‘We’ve already had several of those, have you got another one?’

One of the other young actors whispered something in his ear.

‘Very well. Antonio it is.’

Crowley would have thought he had been cast by mistake if Shakespeare hadn’t been having such a hard time finding actors.

He only had a page of dialogue, the least of any named individual in the play. His character was vacillating, half pushover, half plot device. Shakespeare also evidently hadn’t bothered to give him a name as his lines were merely identified as belonging to ‘Antonio.’ 

Crowley loved every word of it. Despite its simplicity there was something compelling it this Italian lord’s layers of denial and pretension of agency.

The Theatre was exciting, although he sometimes felt somewhat out of place. Rehearsal was intense and he felt he was cheating somehow in having so few lines.

He was sure it served his purposes. It drew people of all strata to the more insalubrious parts of the city, it didn’t shy away from the appealing sides of infidelity and indolence. Everything seemed to be going well.

Actually performing was another matter. Shakespeare was kind to him and that made it worse. When he lost the thread of a backward-folding train of thought, dropped a line or co-opted someone else’s it was met only with a petition for consistency or a query regarding whether he would like his lines copied out again. This confused Crowley to no end. In his experience mistakes were punished, inadvertent errors seen as signals of incompetence.

He felt he owed something for this forgiveness. He had to try to get it right, for the sake of the play. He found that when he wasn’t afraid of being reprimanded, he was even more afraid of getting it wrong. Because he cared now.

He remembered the first time he got it right. He’d come offstage after his scene in act one. Shakespeare didn’t say anything. He just smiled. And somehow that was so much better.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley had to leave after a time, to attend to the wars of succession carrying on in France, so he didn’t know if Shakespeare would have cast him in anything else during those years.

The theatres closed several times during those years, as there were resurgences of plague across London.

Aziraphale was scared and Crowley didn’t blame him. Not many people have died of plague and lived to tell the tale.

‘He can’t come back. I mean, look at the Thames! Look at the smog! We get four Riders of The Apocalypse. Un-deux-trois-quatre. Four.’

Crowley nodded in agreement. ‘I wonder how Will is getting on.’

‘Was that the playwright?’

‘I suspect he’s rather well off. Moving up in the world.’

‘How’s France going?’

Crowley made a face.

‘Thought as much. I might be able to do something about that.’

 

—

 

Crowley joined the company again in the spring of ninety-nine.

As far as Crowley could tell, William had been a something of a serial monogamist, he’d had his romances with Anne and Henry, he’d been seeing Lucy for a couple years now.

Crowley had been meaning to ask him about something in a play he had watched a few years back. It had been been performed in the Curtain after a contentious dispute with the landlord of the Theatre, not unlike the one Shakespeare was currently embroiled in with Lucy Morgan’s father.

Will seemed to be something of an inadvertent agent of chaos.

Crowley had rented a cushion, more in the interest of financially supporting the company than his own comfort* and was seated three rows back.

The play was Romeo and Juliet and there was a moment after Romeo killed Tybalt that made Crowley shiver in midst of the warm crowd.

‘Fiend angelical. Dove feathered raven.’

Had he let his guard down at some point backstage? What had Shakespeare seen?

Will alluded to devils and angels all the time. But not with dove wings. Specifically.

He wanted him to be in three plays this time around. And to stay in London all year.

Crowley chewed on the end of the quill as he read the contract. This was all backwards. Demons shouldn’t go around binding themselves, legally or otherwise to humans. They were supposed to be the ones in control.

 

*this is what he told himself, at any rate


	3. Chapter 3

‘Shakespeare?’ Crowley slipped behind a pillar during a lull in rehearsal.

‘What is it Antonio- No, no, DON’T DO THAT WITH THE SWORD!’

One of a pair of identical twins on the other side of the stage guiltily set down the offending weapon while his brother swished his petticoats mockingly like a matador.

Crowley’s tongue darted from his mouth for a fraction of a second. Shakespeare turned back to look at him.

‘Do you know what I am?’

‘An actor. That’s all that matters here. If you’re a noblewoman in disguise or something, there’s a place and a time.’

Crowley absently plucked at the ties on his embroidered doublet. ‘Would be thematically pertinent, I suppose.’

He still wasn’t sure that he believed Will hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but in a time where most people only owned one pair of boots, and wondered more about what medical condition required him to cover his eyes rather than what those eyes actually looked like, there was no way for him to be sure.

‘A place and a time, you said?’

‘Whatever you need, Antonio.’

Downstage, a foil went flying into the pit, denting on impact with the paving beneath the straw and sawdust.

‘I think we need a better Sebastian.’


	4. Chapter 4

‘You can come up to my rooms if you want. The rooms I’m renting, I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’

'Do you?’ Shakespeare asked worriedly.

Crowley blinked behind his dark spectacles. 'Maybe not.’

'I just want you to know that-’

'Yes?’

'When I saw you a few weeks ago- I don’t know what’s changed, but you haven’t and somehow…’

Crowley untied the ribbon that held his dark glasses in place. He tried to hold the frames by the edges as they slid down his nose but was pretty sure he ended up with fingerprints on the lenses anyway.

'This is me.’

'Not human.’ Shakespeare tried not to gasp at the bright yellow eyes, somewhere between snake and cat. The shape of them was odd, slightly too round, and there was only a sliver of white around the edge.

'Not human,’ Crowley agreed.

Something really had changed now. Shakespeare felt, not as though he was seeing him for the first time, but like some ancient, familiar sensation had suddenly concretized. The feeling that you get after turning a sentence over and over in your mind until you give up and forget about and then one moment when you’re distracted it echoes back through your mind and you realize that it’s just right.

Shakespeare looked at the floor, not quite ready to meet that intense golden gaze. He noticed something else.

'How do you keep the leather soles on your feet?’

'Pins going into the scales.’ Crowley thought he might be blushing.

'Does that hurt?’

'It’s like… horseshoes.’ He was definitely blushing now.

'So you don’t take them off?’

'You know, when I-’ Crowley was also looking at the floor now, a habit it had taken him nearly two centuries to break.

'I don’t think anyone else is down here, but we can go upstairs if that would-’

Crowley nodded, half gratefully, half apprehensively.

'I don’t expect anything of you, Antonio, human or not.’

'Besides a full season at the globe?’

'A gift freely given, surely.’

'You made me sign a contract!’

'A formality. God knows you don’t need the money.’

'Does He really?

'You know what I mean.’

'Maybe.’


	5. Chapter 5

‘I never really understood the idea of sin,’ Crowley said, lying on his back, looking up at the familiar scene that took part in the carvings on the underside of the canopy over Shakespeare’s bed. 'There are things that hurt people, things they feel guilty about, but sin per se seems entirely arbitrary to me.’

'You believe in God?’

'Bit hard to ignore an eviction notice.’

'You mean Eden?’

'That too.’

'What do you mean?’

Crowley sat up just enough to reach the carvings. Will could just about see the muscles tense in his small, soft stomach

‘ ’S me,’ he said, tracing his finger along the wooden snake wound around a miniature apple tree.

'Metaphorically?’

'Literally.’ Crowley finally looked into Will’s grey-brown eyes and he could see he was telling the truth.

‘So… What brought you to the London theatre scene?’

‘A playwright from Stratford.’

‘May I kiss you?’

'Not lying down.’

'Alright.’

'Have you read about the Ophites?’

'Were they the ones with the odd ritual involving bread?’

'Says the Anglican.’

'Says the Serpent of Eden.’

Will kissed him once and then again. 'Thank you for the truth.’

'Mmm.’

'I hope the second century wasn’t the last time you’ve been kissed.’

'Why’s that?’

'Because you’re clearly enjoying this.’

'Yeah?’

'Do you think Marco would mind if I were to play Sebastian? I realize that I’m obviously not-’

’D'y'have t'keep talking.’ Crowley spoke softly into Shakespeare’s beard.

'Yes.’


	6. Chapter 6

‘You’ve given me an old man role again,’ Crowley decided, reading over his latest script.

‘Where do I say that?’

‘I’ve got an adult daughter.’

‘I have an adult daughter, Antonio.’

‘Oh.’

‘But hopefully she’ll be able to wait longer than I did before getting married.’

‘You don’t seem very married.’

‘I’m very bad at it.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You seem spoken for.’

‘I’ve been around since shortly after they started measuring time, I’ve formed a few attachments.’ Crowley waved a hand vaguely in the direction of where the audience would be.

‘Have they seen you on stage?’

‘One night of What You Will, I think.’

‘Before or after the substitution?’

‘He’s not talking to me.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s complicated.’

Shakespeare crossed his arms and leaned back. ‘Tell me more.’


	7. Chapter 7

‘What do you think of the new play?’

Crowley stared into his drink thoughtfully, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is that an I-should-change-it I don’t know or-‘

The demon downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp.

‘Antonio? Are you alright?’

‘Fine.’

‘You still doing okay with- What was it you said you were doing for money-‘

‘With money, more like.’ Crowley smiled humourlessly. ‘It’d be exciting if it fell through, but it’s not going to happen.’

‘Is this about… What was his name?’ Shakespeare reached over to refill Crowley’s glass.

‘Don’t you have another act to write?’

‘You’re not normally like this.’

‘Do you want something for me?’ Crowley snapped. His shoulders were hunched forward and tense, leaning over the table and somehow making himself even smaller. Shakespeare wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure the angel Antonio had mentioned–Azraphael? Ezra fail? Iraphale? Arviragus? Rosencrantz?—would know what to do when he got like this.

‘You’ve given me a scene, if you’ll allow me to use it.’

‘You can have the scene but I don’t want the role.’

‘Antonio?’

‘Yes?’

‘Good luck with your angel.’

‘See you around, William.’

‘Ciao bello.’

‘Ciao.’


	8. Chapter 8

Someone had thrown open the door of Shakespeare’s study. It was as though a gust of wind had blown through the building. This someone would have been unassuming were it not for the fire behind his eyes and the fact that he somehow seemed to tower over the playwright as he turned around to see why the pages of the book he had open on the desk were blowing as though being flipped through by an idle hand.

‘What do you know of the actor you call Antonio?’ It was clearly an inquiry into how much Shakespeare knew rather than a bid for new information.

‘He’s the Serpent of Eden.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘Crowley is-’

‘What?’

‘He’s a fallen angel. A demon.’

‘I know.’

‘Did you actually intend to give him the lines “the devil can cite scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness is like a villain with a a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart”? I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt in terms of what you’re actually trying to accomplish with that scene-‘

‘He likes to think of himself as wicked.’

‘He likes to say that. He tries to accept what happened. But he’s really-’

‘I got caught up in the point the character was trying to make.’

‘That appearances are deceiving?’

‘I-’

‘He’s created the way he looks, you know. The hair, the clothes, trying to make sure his skin’s nice…’

‘Most people do that.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Is he alright?’

‘Do you think I’m being possessive?’

‘What?’ Shakespeare balked, momentarily imagining some eldritch entity taking over the body of this curly-haired middle aged man.

‘Or overprotective. Or something.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I just don’t want him to get hurt.’ Aziraphale frowned. 'He’d be terribly embarrassed. Don’t tell him I came.’


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley nearly ran into Shakespeare one afternoon in 1610. He was carrying a pile of embroidered carpets. An investment, he had called them when he bought them and miracled them back to mint condition whenever they were damaged. But now they were fashionable again, and not Crowley’s kind of fashionable, so he was planning on selling them.

It was all a lot of nonsense, he thought, moving money around, but then again he didn’t have to worry about the things most people did.

‘Antonio!’ Shakespeare shouted, over the din of people hawking their wares. 

Crowley nearly dropped the carpets.

'Sorry to startle you.’

If the demon’s wings were out his feathers would be spread in apprehension. He took a deep breath. It was hardly Will’s fault he was so deeply hardwired for flight or fight.

’ ’S alright.’

'I’ve written you another part. A proper villain this time. Lots of great speeches, at least, I think they’ll be great anyway.’

'Oh?’

'He’s the brother of a duke.’

'More dukes?’ Crowley shifted the heavy pile of carpets in his arms, wondering if anyone would notice if he miracled them away.

'Well, it’s Italy again, you know… Except it’s not. It’s on an island with a old magician and his daughter. The duke’s the magician, you’re his brother-’

'His younger brother, I hope.’

'Have to be, you haven’t aged a day. It really isn’t fair.’

'On the contrary, I have aged over two million days, only very slowly and not always in the same direction.’

'I’m thinking of moving back to Stratford,’ Shakespeare confessed, 'After this season that is. I’ve had a good run, but a voluntary break would not be amiss, methinks.’

'Need any carpets?’

'Oh, Antonio. I’d forgotten. Let me help you with those.’

'What kind of villain are we talking about?’

'A regular tempter.’

'Oh.’

'Leading people on to visions of greatness.’

'Oh.’

'But he’s forgiven in the end.’

Crowley’s brow creased above his dark glasses and a wavering smile drifted across his lips, 'Is that so?’


	10. Chapter 10

‘Thank you for doing this for me, organizing this last season. I think this is going to be something of a farewell.’

'To me?’ Crowley bit his lip. He didn’t know how to respond to that. 

'To the stage, Antonio. You’ve been a good friend and a brave actor and in your own way a dear lover-’

'What’s happening? I mean, the theatre’s being… Not so much repaired as replaced entirely, but it’s- I mean, it’s still the Globe. What’s changed?’

'That was quick thinking with the pitcher of beer back there.’

'I’ve got a bit of experience with fire.’

'I’m moving on, I think. Retiring.’

'It’s not an omen, you know. Things catching on fire usually doesn’t mean you should go rest on your laurels.’

'Didn’t you say you once slept for a decade and a half by accident?’

'When you were trying to explain the War of the Roses, yeah. I don’t recommend it.’

'You fell asleep when I was trying to explain the War of the Roses.’

'Is that why you’re leaving?’

'Don’t be ridiculous.’

'Why then?’

'I have a family to go back to. I can’t keep making theatre for ever.’

Crowley nodded. There was a balance between feverish activity and rest, but he had never figured out how to fit the pieces together.

'I’m not abandoning you, you know. You’re absolutely welcome in Stratford.’


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley did visit Stratford in the years that followed. 

He hardly left the mid-size market town the month Shakespeare fell ill. 

He thought about the story of Jason being crushed under the collapsing hull of the Argo years after he had stopped travelling. 

This was nothing like that. Shakespeare was the same neurotic Londoner that stayed up all night carving plays out of thoughts. He drank too much and thought too much and it was really no surprise it eventually took it’s toll on his health. 

In late March of 1616 Shakespeare developed what doctors of later ages would call a cerebral hemorrhage. Crowley didn’t know what the worst part would be if Anne didn’t keep turning him out of the house, but as it was the worst part was Anne continually turning him out of the house. As the month of April wore on the terrible truth became more and more evident. 

On the twenty-fourth Crowley turned up in an inn in Westminster.

‘I’m terrible at my job, angel. Buy me drink.’ 

Aziraphale silently enveloped the demon in a hug. It had been a quiet month and Upstairs had had him on record keeping. He’d known what had happened before Susanna had sent a servant out to the garden “to tell Antonio.”

‘You’ll get through this, Crowley.’

‘Don’t talk,’ the demon said quietly. Two short clipped syllables swallowed by shallow breathing. He closed his odd yellow eyes and rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.


End file.
